


baby, we built this house (of memories)

by sunflower_8



Category: Dangan Ronpa - All Media Types, New Dangan Ronpa V3: Everyone's New Semester of Killing
Genre: A Study On Pacing: And Sunflower_8's Lack of It, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Arguments, Emotional Baggage, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, God Damn It You Kiwi, Hurt/Comfort, Identity Issues, M/M, Opening Up: And Other Skills Rantaro Amami Just Fucking Acquired, Post-Canon, Slow Burn, Trauma, finished form of a draft, resolved emotional tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-30
Updated: 2020-03-30
Packaged: 2021-02-28 21:01:09
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,228
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23403406
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunflower_8/pseuds/sunflower_8
Summary: people are alive, maybe----but rantaro is not.this is not his house, and they are not his family.(or, rantaro's confusion and frustration with the world around him mounts when shuichi saihara finds his way to become everything rantaro is not.)
Relationships: Amami Rantaro & Saihara Shuichi, Amami Rantaro/Saihara Shuichi
Comments: 13
Kudos: 45





	baby, we built this house (of memories)

this is not rantaro’s house.

this is not the house he grew up in. it does not smell like fireplaces and cheap lavender candles; there are no books scattered on the coffee table. if he opens every door, he won’t find his mother’s clothes folded, still smelling like fresh laundry. if he goes to the drawers in the kitchen, he won’t find bags of sencha tea. there is not a single album of photographs. there is no life, no melancholy, no mirth, no emotion. 

this is not rantaro’s house.

and yet, this is the one he came back to after danganronpa ended. 

the kitchen is small, and kirumi spends most of her time there, cooking with maki or korekiyo or whoever stops by that day. the drawers are empty aside from a few spoons, and the only tea they have is chamomile. nobody carries photographs, nobody lights candles, and everyone’s clothes are scattered in their rooms. people are alive, maybe--

\--but rantaro is not.

this is not his house, and they are not his family. 

he doesn’t have to like them. just because they try to have  _ friendly activity time  _ doesn’t mean that rantaro has to join. none of them care about him, or even know him. none of them are his family. they joined a killing game and won without ever knowing a goddamn thing about him. even if they are trying to form a found family,

rantaro will never join. 

there is no sencha tea. there is nothing for him here. 

“hello, rantaro,” shuichi saihara greets when rantaro stumbles in the kitchen at two am with red eyes and clenched hands. he sits and watches the green-haired man fling open cupboards, cradling a cup of black coffee to his chest. he doesn’t sound cold when he asks, “how are you?”

“shut up,” rantaro responds immediately. shuichi quietens, sipping his drink. “why is there no tea? or sugar? or alcohol?” 

“there’s plenty of tea. it’s just not the kind you like.” he almost seems bored as he says it.

rantaro glares at him. “and the sugar?”

“we’re buying more soon.”

“and the alcohol?”

“none of us are well enough to keep alcohol in close proximity, rantaro.”

he considers storming out, locking himself in his room (not  _ his  _ room,  _ a  _ room, the room that he was forced into) and never talking to a single person ever again. instead, his legs stop working halfway through the journey and he collapses into a chair beside shuichi. the dark-haired man doesn’t comment on how pathetic he looks. he just keeps drinking coffee. 

it’s the most infuriating sight rantaro has ever seen.

“how are you friends with everyone?” it slips off of his tongue before rantaro can filter it. shuichi looks at him curiously, his green eyes intrigued under a thick layer of lashes. rantaro doesn’t have the self control to stop. “i get it, you survived. congratulations. everyone likes you. but  _ how _ ?”

rantaro hopes shuichi registers that he’s not asking  _ how  _ he survived. rantaro is good at that. all rantaro has ever known is how to survive, how to brush off betrayal, act charismatic, never miss a  _ single detail  _ and survive. he doesn’t have enough faith in the people around him to cast away the doubt that they  _ would  _ ask,  _ would  _ forget, because what reason would they have to not?

but  _ oh,  _ shuichi is perfect. he doesn’t ask. he just raises an eyebrow. “everyone likes you too, rantaro. you’ve always been our friend. even on the bad days, we’re here for you. even if you act like you resent us, we don’t hate you.”

“you’re a shitty liar, you know that?” rantaro spits out, trying to hide the fact that he almost,  _ almost  _ believed him. “a horrible. fucking. liar.” he pushes the chair away from the table with a loud scrape, standing up and walking out of the kitchen, his entire body tense. before he can leave, he hears a soft,

“goodnight, rantaro.”

as if the fucker expects him to get any sleep. 

\--

these are not rantaro’s friends.

because rantaro’s friends are  _ dead _ . four generations have lived and died, killed and gotten killed, and rantaro had to vindicate and condemn them all. four generations have come back to life, shiny smiles on tv and sharp glares in the streets. none of them like rantaro. all of them left him behind.

the friends that believed, doubted,  _ acknowledged _ rantaro are dead. 

by extension, the rantaro that was heroic is dead as well.

these are not rantaro’s friends, because kaede is very alive, smiling away her apathy (and, in contrast, everything that makes her human) and offering to talk to him. ryoma gives him a candy cigarette, slid under the table with cold hands that barely touch his, and kaito asks him to train (leaving out the fact that they wouldn’t be alone, that rantaro would see the others and immediately leave). these are not rantaro’s friends, because rantaro’s friends don’t care, and these caricatures do. 

shuichi saihara is the worst of them all. 

“rantaro,” he calls after rantaro made the mistake of going to breakfast-- an error he hasn’t made in three days. rantaro keeps walking. shuichi keeps talking. “i heard it’s your birthday today.”

“i noticed,” he replies dryly. he hates his birthday because it’s also the anniversary when everything started. when he first awoke in the game, age eighteen. then he woke up again, age eighteen. again, age eighteen.

knowing he will never be eighteen again makes him want to claw himself apart.

shuichi has the audacity to smile. “happy birthday. kaede made you a present--”

“i saw,” rantaro says.

“ah, alright.” shuichi has the audacity to  _ keep smiling  _ even though he  _ must _ be disappointed _.  _ “i just didn’t want you to be alone on your birthday.”

“what if i  _ want _ to be alone?” rantaro challenges, knowing he is unconvincing. “ever considered that,  _ mr. detective _ ?”

shuichi flinches, just slightly. it makes rantaro smirk. it falls away when shuichi says, “yes. i did consider that. and i decided that it’s bullshit.”

“fuck you.” rantaro forces as much venom in his voice as he can. it takes his breath with him, and he hates, hates,  _ hates  _ shuichi saihara. “fuck you.”

shuichi saihara is not his friend, because shuichi saihara doesn’t give up.

\--

these dreams are not rantaro’s dreams.

these dreams do not show his sisters before being lost. he doesn’t see red-brown hair shielding freckled faces or bright blue eyes on tan skin. he is not pierced by icy screams from those he cares about and he does not quiver and shake as he sleeps. when he wakes up, he doesn’t tremble or cry, knowing that there isn’t a single person he hasn’t lost who will care.

these dreams are not rantaro’s dreams because he wakes up  _ screaming _ .

the clawing in his throat and the phantom pains are unfamiliar. even after a class trial, he was more likely to not sleep at all than to have a nightmare; for the past few weeks after waking up, he has hardly gotten to sleep deeply enough that he’d actually dream. but now, he’s surrendered, and the memories consume him. he doesn’t miss the feeling of panic, the want he has had (ever since he was young in a too-big bedroom) to be held.

when kaede steps into his room, though, he doesn’t want to be held. 

he’s shouting before he realizes it, waving his tired arms with hardly enough energy. her eyes widen and then fill with sadness as she turns and shuts the door, and an exchange that should have lasted ten minutes is over in a blink of an eye.

he collapses back in bed. he can hardly process time.

the next morning, he accidentally goes to breakfast at the same time everyone else does. kaede smiles at him, but it doesn’t reach her eyes, and shuichi saihara pulls him to the side.

“you really upset kaede last night,” shuichi scolds him. he would sound more threatening, but his eyes are rimmed in red and his lips are naturally turned down. easy target.  _ easy target-  _ “i think you should apologize to her.”

“she disturbed my privacy,” rantaro finds himself arguing. his exhaustion sends him into auto-pilot, voice low and scalding without processing what he’s saying. “people have nightmares every night and you don’t see a hoard of people coming into their rooms.”

“she did it,” his voice is filled with irritation, “because she was  _ worried about you.  _ like we all are.” shuichi shifts on his feet, looking at rantaro with fiery eyes. “if you were just a  _ little  _ more open, then maybe we would be more willing to give you privacy. we don’t know shit about you, rantaro-- how is kaede supposed to know that you aren’t going to fling yourself out a window? she can’t trust you if she doesn’t know you.”

“whose fault is that?” rantaro fights.

shuichi glares at him. “yours, rantaro. it’s your fault.”

rantaro laughs. he doesn’t want to. “i don’t think kaede would give a single shit if i killed myself. it’s not like, y’know, she cared about my safety  _ back then. _ ”

he sees the glint in shuichi’s eye shift, his jaw tighten. rantaro’s hit a rough spot  _ exactly  _ (it’s surprisingly easy). shuichi clenches his hand and spits out, “you’re an asshole, rantaro.” after that, he leaves, grabbing a single piece of toast and going into the hallway. he doesn’t spare rantaro a single glance.

rantaro stands there alone, room emptying out as the minutes tick by. he stands there for a long time, thinking of nothing,  _ feeling  _ nothing,

before he punches the wall,  _ hard,  _ and makes his way to angie’s room.

\--

this hair is not rantaro’s hair.

this hair is not the color that created the damning relation between him and his father-- different in personality but similar in looks. it’s not the color that distinguished which siblings were really  _ his;  _ it didn’t earn him the silly nicknames he longs to hear again. it’s not cropped with an undercut, it’s not maintained.

this hair is not rantaro’s hair because the second he saw shuichi saihara leave, he stole some hair dye and turned it dark blue. 

it’s a stupid thing to care about. there are thousands of things that fill his mind, and yet the intrusive thoughts about his hair can’t be denied. it’s long and curlier, covering up his ears that are still stained azure from the process. it doesn’t look bad, but it’s the first time he’s messed with his hair, and he did it over an argument with the most insufferable person he’s ever met.

when he goes to dinner, he can tell people are shocked. angie initially looks upset that he clearly took the dye from her, but her face softens and she smiles again. it’s tired but earnest-- it’s guilt rantaro doesn’t deserve to be absolved of.

kaede compliments it and it feels meaningless, but he fakes a smile, hoping that she doesn’t hate him-

-and he’s never cared about being hated before.

it makes him want to stop, to collapse, to tear out the navy hair and scream. he knows that if he did, it would remain in everyone’s memory, and he would never hear the end of it. people would be concerned, and rantaro just wishes he was invisible.

when he grabs his food (a banana), he plans to go upstairs and not talk to anyone. however, he sees a familiar figure in the corner of his eye, and his shoulders immediately tense.

“i like your hair, ‘taro.”

rantaro turns around, eyes narrowing. “‘taro?”

“ah, it’s uh, a nickname,” shuichi explains, as if the elaboration is needed. “i like the color. why did you dye it?”

he can’t stop thinking about the nickname, how familiar it is for reasons he can’t place. he manages to shrug and come up with a somewhat convincible lie. “got bored.”

shuichi sees through it immediately, but all he says is, “ah, nice. i’ll see you later, rantaro.”

rantaro nods, making his way to the room. he’s halfway up the stairs when he freezes, almost dropping his banana, and realizes-

- _ his sisters used to call him ‘taro. _

the sisters (real, fake, he can’t differentiate) who loved to play around with his  _ soft green hair _ .

when he grabs the railing of the stairs, he finds himself trembling.

\--

this name is not rantaro’s name.

this name-- nickname, rather-- is not any different from the one his sisters used to call him. this nickname is the _same_ _name_ his sisters used to call him, and he’s so used to differences that one similarity is enough to destroy him. this name is not the name he asked for, but it is his.

this name should not be rantaro’s name, but shuichi saihara decided against that.

rantaro hears footsteps and he hardly has to look to know it’s shuichi. nobody else would have come, really, so there’s no point in looking when he can focus on the flowers himiko and maki planted. they’re bright and colorful-- himiko’s decision, he’s sure. he may not know them all well but he’s certain that maki wouldn’t choose bright yellow daffodils. 

it doesn’t matter. even if he wants to watch them garden, it’s not like he could. everything he is is based on the ideals of isolation, and he will not let that fall apart.

even when shuichi sits beside him, smiles at him, and says, “they’re nice.”

rantaro furrows his eyebrows. “what?”

“the flowers,” shuichi elaborates. “they’re nice.”

“oh.” rantaro’s sigh shifts into a scowl as he breaks eye contact. “yeah. they are.”

“ah, you should help them.” shuichi ignores the grimace on rantaro’s face and continues, “i mean, it’s fairly personal to them, as coping mechanisms are, but i don’t think they would be against your presence. i would actually argue that they want you there.”

rantaro looks up at the sky, blue and clear. he feels an urge to scream but doesn’t know if he can stomach the energy. “when are you going to stop acting like a therapist and admit that this is annoying for you?” he runs his hand through his hair-- softer than it was initially after he dyed it. “i get that you have a lot of perseverance, but jesus. i’m getting the feeling you’re just shoving down your emotions so you can just-”

_ help me. _

why is that so difficult to say?

shuichi shrugs. “it’s not really hurting me, rantaro. i’m smart enough to know why you’re doing this.”

“do you think you can save me?” rantaro asks, feeling as though he’s posed that same question hundreds of times.

he shakes his head. “ah, no. i know i can’t. but i would like if you opened up to me.”

rantaro digs his fingernails into his arm, trying to be subtle about using the pain to stabilize himself. he doesn’t reply for a long, long time, but eventually he says, ever so quietly, “i don’t know who i am.”

“oh.” it seems to take shuichi off guard, and rantaro can relish in that fact. “i understand-”

“no, you don’t,” rantaro says impatiently, “because you were only  _ ever  _ shuichi saihara. i can’t even tell who i am, what i experienced, i don’t even know who my sisters are, if they’re real-” he finds himself breathless already, but shuichi doesn’t say a thing. “you keep calling me ‘taro, and my sisters called me that, and the name ‘rantaro amami’ is one i hate  _ so much _ because i don’t know who i am.”

shuichi moves to put a hand on his shoulder, but rantaro twists away. “rantaro, i-”

“ _ it’s not my name _ ,” he insists, “it’s not  _ me.  _ i... i think i should go.” he stands up, his hands shaking where he keeps them in fists. 

shuichi stands up too and looks at him. “you don’t have to-”

“i have to.” 

shuichi watches as he takes off, running to his room with blurry eyes,

like a coward.

(the next day, he watches himiko and maki plant flowers, wishing that he could touch the earth that rejected him.)

\--

these memories are not rantaro’s memories. 

these memories are not of losing sisters or becoming many different ultimates. he doesn’t fail in these memories; he doesn’t lose and lose and lose  _ sisters  _ and  _ friends  _ and  _ sanity.  _ he doesn’t win in these memories. he doesn’t defeat a grand evil, he doesn’t get looked with a damning hatred. 

these memories are not rantaro’s memories because shuichi saihara is in them all.

“why are you still trying?” he asks one night as he sits on a balcony, shuichi beside him, silent. he’s watching the sun set-- lackluster, lacking vibrancy-- as rantaro keeps talking cyclically. “why haven’t you given up on me?”

“because i knew you were trying to push everyone away out of pain,” he responds casually. “you didn’t want us to stay away, really. so i was going to keep trying. and i still will.”

“you know i’m an asshole,” rantaro argues.

“yeah. you are.”

rantaro laughs a little, and it tastes more bitter than the black coffee shuichi loves to drink. “and it’s going to take forever for me to come around.”

“yeah. i know,” shuichi says neutrally. 

“but you’re still going to try.”

“yeah. i will.”

rantaro doesn’t feel like laughing anymore. it’s not even a savior complex; it’s just  _ idiocy _ . it’s so unbelievably frustrating, and, on a smaller scale, embarrassing. having to be saved, to be coaxed to open up-- it’s  _ pointless. _ “this isn’t good for you.”

“says?” 

“says logic!” rantaro stands up. “you’re putting up with an  _ asshole,  _ shuichi. name one time i’ve actually made you feel better.” shuichi opens his mouth to reply, but rantaro just shakes his head. “don’t. rhetorical question; i don’t want to hear it.”

“i want to help you, ‘taro. i want you to be comfortable. i want you to talk to the others. i want you to  _ make new memories _ . and-”

the rest of his speech fades into static as rantaro’s body shakes. that simple phrase, like a mantra--  _ make new memories, make new memories--  _ is enough to make his eyes blur over, causing him to stumble backwards, his back hitting the railing around the balcony. shuichi eventually stops, noticing that rantaro’s crying and opening his arms up as rantaro falls to his knees. shuichi seems shocked, but he holds him,

and rantaro sobs harder when he feels a kiss against his forehead.

“it’s okay, rantaro. sorry if i’m pushing you, i just…” shuichi sighs. “i love you and i care about you, and i’m worried. i want you to be happy. i want  _ everyone  _ to be happy.”

“shuichi?” rantaro asks softly, scared that if his voice goes any louder, his words will dissolve to nothing.

“yeah?”

he shuts his eyes tightly. “can… can we talk? about… about everything?”

in lieu of a reply, shuichi just smiles and pulls away, sitting beside him and waiting for him to tell his story, 

and everything seems to click into place.

\--

this is not rantaro’s house. he did not grow up here, and there are no lavender candles or sencha tea. there are no businessmen, no sisters, no family-- just shuichi saihara and a bunch of rantaro’s  _ friends.  _ this is not his house, not by any possible stream of logic,

but maybe he could find happiness here after all.

**Author's Note:**

> okay i am aware the pacing of this hasn't really improved and the romance does NOT develop well but *shrugs*
> 
> ahem. hello
> 
> have a lot of WIPs and stuff. currently trying to decide the order of posting. have a fic in a different fandom coming. all that fun, juicy stuff. trying to get a lot out this week because i (aside from tomorrow) don't have work to do during quarantine. so. a lot of lonely time, and thus, good for fic. uh. yeah i hope at least like one person likes this???
> 
> have a good day, everyone. please stay safe.


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